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removed from Mr. Koenig's machine, when Mr. Bensley requested us to apply our improvements.
Having, on the first trial of our machines, discovered the superiority of the inking-roller and table over the common balls, we immediately applied them to the common press, and with complete success; the invention, however, was immediately infringed throughout the kingdom, and copied in France, Germany, and America; and it would have been as fruitless to have attempted to stop the infringement of the patent, as it was found in the case of the Kaleidoscope.
This invention has raised the quality of printing generally. In almost any old book will be perceived groups of words very dark, and other groups very light; these are technically called "monks and friars," which have been "reformed altogether."
The principal object in a newspaper machine, is to obtain a great number of impressions from the same form, or one side of the sheet, and not from two forms, or both sides of the sheet, as in books.
In the Times machine, which was planned by Mr. Applegath, upon our joint inventions, the form passes under four printing cylinders, which are fed with sheets of paper by four lads, and after the sheets are print ed, they pass into the hands of four other lads; by this contrivance
A variety of machines have been invented by other persons, which have not been attended with sufficient success to make me acquainted with their merits, with the exception of Mr. Napier, who has erected several machines for newspapers.
Although the success of the inventions in which have been engaged has rendered frequent reference to them unavoidable, I trust I have distinctly assigned to Mr. Koenig the honour of making the first working machine, and to Mr. W. Nicholson the honour of suggesting its princi ples, and that I have thus fairly stated the origin, the progress, and the suc cess, of the recent improvements in the art of printing.
Are ye the seed of the Mighty in story?
There sleeps not a traitor, there sleeps not a slave?
From whose blood rose up armies? whose name had the power
To shake kings on their thrones, and should shake them this hour?
And seed of the Mighty, the Free, and the Brave,
Can you speak of your sires, can you gaze on their grave,
And sleep like a woman, and crouch like a slave,
* Eleutherochori (the Town of Freedom), so called in reference to the glorious defence of Thermopylæ, is situated at a little distance from the scene of this memorable achievement, on the south side of Mount Eta. The exploits of the brave inhabitants of these defiles on a late occasion might almost justify, or at least excuse, the very pardonable vanity of a local tradition, which traces their descent from some stragglers of the Grecian army.
No! we're the seed of the Mighty in story-
OW delightful is it to take up a work of real power!-to feel, after you have glanced through a dozen pages, that, however you may complain of the perversion of talents, -however you may be fatigued with an exuberance of decoration,-you will not sicken at a perpetual exhibition of the most humiliating feebleness! Nine books out of ten that we are compelled to skim over (to read is out of the question) are utterly worthless, the prosings of inanity, -the miserable displays of the most miserable conceit;-reminiscences that make one curse the existence of such a faculty as memory,-travels that would induce us to regard steamboats and practicable roads as the most fatal products of civilization,-novels that would almost make us cry out upon the benefits of education, and deplore the days when neither footmen nor chambermaids could write their names, much less be the manu facturers of sentiment in the boudoir, and small wit in the dining room, Onward sweeps the stream of popu lar literature, carrying into the little havens of thousands of book-clubs and circulating libraries, all the paint ed and gilded shallops (fragile as the paper boat of the schoolboy) that live for a week in that calm and sunby water, and then are hurried for ever to the black ocean, where the great devourer, oblivion, Hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening
But when a goodly vessel sweeps down that current, gallant, indeed, with streamers, and light and gay as the insect things that float around,but with her sails set, her yards manned, and her stately prow rushing fearlessly on to the great deeps of time,
then we care not if a myriad paltry barks perish, so that the brave ship live; and happy are we, if, at some distant day, casting our eye over the broad expanse of waters, we behold the noble vessel still sailing proudly along with that glorious fleet,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
"Salathiel" is generally understood to be the production of the Rev. G. Croly-a gentleman who, unquestionably, holds a very distinguished rank amongst our imaginas tive writers, whatever estimate may be formed of his more recent attempt, in the peculiar walk of his profession, to expound some of the higher mysteries of prophecy. As a poet, Mr. Croly has fairly earned his laurels. "Paris in 1815," and "Catiline," attracted no inconsiderable share of attention, at a time when Byron was the sun of the poetical firmament. They abound in vigo rous and original thoughts, clothed in powerful and lofty diction. The elaborate magnificence of their language is, perhaps, too sustained; and the effect of this splendid colouring,
* Salathiel. A story of the past, the present, and the future. 3 vols. Colburn. 1828.
to our minds, scarcely compensates for the absence of repose and simplicity. But still we surrender our feelings to one whom we know to be a master of his art; and we are assured that we listen not to "the sounding brass and the tinkling cymbal" of merely gorgeous words, but that the matter of the poet would bear a more quiet drapery, and, under any shape, would present us an ennobling morality, and an acute perception of what constitutes the beautiful and the true.
"Salathiel" partakes, and very largely, of the merits and the defects of Mr. Croly's poems. Considered as a whole, it does not leave any very enchaining interest upon the mind of the reader; it is occasionally wearisome from the perpetual trumpettone, even of the narrative portions; the wildness and extravagance of many of the incidents, though often sublime, and always spirited in the delineation, place the hero too far above human sympathies; and images of horror are certainly scattered with indiscriminate profuseness, so as to deaden the force of the final catastrophe, weakening our sensibility by their constant demand upon its exercise. Yet, open the work where we may, we shall find something vivid and original,-magnificent descriptions, elaborated with the greatest skill,—an intimate knowledge of the incidents and manners of antiquity, founded upon a diligent study of classical and scriptural authorities, yet never ostentatiously paraded, but rendered subservient to the dramatic effect,-a pure and manly philosophy, looking down from an intellectual eminence upon the paltry ambition and vain desires of the great mass of mankind.
The mysterious adventures of "the Wandering Jew" appear to present a rich and inexhaustible subject for romantic delineation, But they also require to be treated by no unskilful hand, not only to maintain the verisimilitude of the subject, but to avoid the anachronisms, into which an unlearned writer would be betrayed,
by the attempt to make a living man speak of the infinitely varying events and manners of eighteen hundred years. "Salathiel," the rash and unhappy being who called down upon himself the fearful doom of "Tarry thou till I come," details, in the volumes before us, a very small por tion of the incidents of his mysteri ous existence, comprehending only the period from the Crucifixion to the Destruction of Jerusalem. In this brief space of about forty years the hero of the story can scarcely be said to feel the awful curse which is laid upon him,-for he is not yet different from those who seek that home where "the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest," except in a very undefined and dream-like consciousness that he is fearfully exempted from the common lot of humanity. Salathiel is ac cordingly not here delineated as the restless and dissatisfied spirit who wanders about the earth, enduring all evils, and bearing all degrada tions, but clothed in a spell which bids defiance to the last outrage of malice or vengeance, and gradually laying up the proudest contempt for those insignificant beings whose brief race of useless labours and miserable pleasures are hurried forward to ob livion, to be repeated by a succession of men with the same pitiful hopes and wasted energies. The "Wandering Jew" of these volumes is a happy husband-a father full of the most anxious cares for his childrena patriot with the most lofty aspiretions for the deliverance of his country--a prince leading his tribes onward to revolt against Roman oppression, and striving with all the energies of an untameable spirit to free the land of the patriarchs from the chains of the conqueror. It is only at intervals that his peculiar destiny is present to his thoughts; and even then it requires to be foreed upon his view by some miraculos agency, and not by the living evi dence of the world constantly chang ing around him, while he remains the same. The interest of the nar
rative is therefore very slightly connected with the isolated feelings, except in anticipation, of a mysterious being doomed to outlive his affections, and to have no sympathies with the frail actors of an ever-shifting scene, which is to him an abid, ing city. This is a spirit-stirring story of an impetuous, lion-hearted, affectionate, generous hero, struggling against his own destinies and those of his country.
sense of their degradation and their duties.
The unhappy offender has a strong sense of the misery of his destiny, and he resolves upon leaving Jerusalem, to escape if possible from the recollection of his nameless crime, He flies to the country of his tribe, with whom he sojourns till the excesses of the Romans hurry the people into insurrection, upon their annual visit to the Holy City at the feast of the Passover. From this moment he is plunged into a perpetual contest with the iron power of the Empire, and often leads his countrymen to splendid but fruitless victories. Throughout the narrative the actual condition of the relation between the conqueror and the conquered is depicted with a masterly hand and the great variety of customs is indicated with a complete knowledge of this difficult and complicated subject.
There is a great deal of dramatic power scattered through these volumes-sometimes exhibiting itself in impassioned eloquence, sometimes in biting sarcasm, and occasionally in a playful humour, in which the author appears to us singularly felicitous. Of the latter description are the 6th and 7th chapters of the second volume, in which a wild and adventurous character is depicted with a vigour and sprightliness quite worthy of the mind which produced the Flibbertigibbet of Kenilworth. For the loftier exhibition of dramatic force, we should particularly point to the interview of Salathiel with Titus, the scene in the Pirate's cave, and the various attempts of the hero to arouse the Jewish people to a
Amongst the fancied domestic misfortunes of Salathiel is the flight of his elder daughter with a Chris tian Greek. He pursues the fagitives to Rome-is hurried into the power of Nero-escapes from the tyrant at the moment of the conflagration of the city-is tempted into the betrayal of an assembly of Christian proselytes—and being placed in the arena to witness their martyrdom, has to endure the dreadful retribution of a parent's agony, so spiritedly described in the following scene :—
"A portal of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle thrown over his face and figure, was The led in, surrounded by soldiery. lion roared, and ramped against the The bars of its den at the sight. guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look round the amphitheatre, His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised an universal sound of admiration. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python. His eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses! Constantius was before me!
An "All my rancour vanished. hour past I could have struck the betrayer to the heart; I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and heaven to smite the destroyBut, to see him er of my child. hopelessly doomed; the man whom I had honoured for his noble qualities, whom I had even loved, whose crime was at worst but the crime of giving way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of to see this noble creature man; flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and this misery wrought by me,-I would have obtested earth and heaven to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir.
I would have thrown myself at the feet of Nero; but I sat like a man of stone, pale, paralysed-the beating of my pulses stopt-my eyes alone alive.
"The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar, and a bound that bore him half across the arena, I saw the sword glitter in the air: when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the largest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious power, couched for an instant as if to make sure of his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible; and Constantius was flung upon the ground. A cry of natural horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for instant life or death. They rolled over each other; the lion reared on its hind feet, and, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword swung round the champion's head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered with gore and dust. The hand of Constantius had grasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not loose the hold; but his strength was evidently giving way he still struck terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before; till collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's throat, and sank, The savage yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howling round the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane; and his conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A universal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible; and all shrank from the hazard. At length the grasp gave way; and the body lay motionless upon the ground.
"What happened for some mo ments after, I know not. There was a struggle at the portal; a female forced her way through the guards, rushed in alone, and flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion: he tore the ground with his talons; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail; he lifted up his mane, and bared his fangs. But his approach was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came souffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing.
"The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted; men burst out into indignant clamours at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign.
"I looked upon the woman's face. It was Salome! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name; I implored her by every feeling of na ture to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her.
"She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice she looked up, and calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her gaze upon me. She still knelt; one hand supported the head, with the other she pointed to it, as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the silence of death among the thousands round me. A fire flashed into her eye-her cheek burned. She waved her hand with an air of superb sor
"I am come to die,' she uttered, in a lofty tone. This bleeding body was my husband. I have no father. The world contains to me but this clay in my arms.-Yet,' and she kissed the ashy lips before her,
yet, my Constantius, it was to save